


love like a bag of frozen peas

by penelopes



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Steph Has A Lot of Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 10:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19354714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penelopes/pseuds/penelopes
Summary: “So does he want to jeopardize everything they’ve built because he wants to nurse him back to health, get on his knees for him, go home with him after every single game, and hold his stupid hand?He might be a face of the NBA, but when faced with Klay Thompson? He’s G league at best.”Klay’s trying to deal with knee surgery and Steph’s trying to deal with being in love with his best friend. He also tries to help with the knee stuff too.





	love like a bag of frozen peas

**Author's Note:**

> i read somewhere you should write the fic you want to see in the world, so here i am.
> 
> the opportunity to write steph and klay wallowing and taking care of each other post-surgery and post-finals loss? one i could not ignore
> 
> also in this universe steph is very much not married nor has he ever been married. just a single guy pining after his teammate
> 
> please do enjoy and let me know what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> “love like a bag of frozen peas, i want to press you up against everything sore.” trista mateer, “leftovers”

Steph shows up at Klay’s house six days after he’s come home from surgery. He wanted to come earlier but figured loitering outside Klay’s gate would draw some unwanted attention, and also, he’s self-aware enough to know it’s just too much this side of creepy and desperate. So, he’s made do with texting him only a few times a day to check on him.

Six days after though, Klay should be well enough to hobble around on his crutches to answer the door when Steph lays on the bell. And sure enough, six minutes after he texts _here_ and rings the doorbell for good measure, the door opens with a grunt from Klay. 

Steph’s heart does the stupid and entirely cliched thing of nearly _skipping a beat_ like it does every time he sees Klay for the first time after days away from him.

He remembers the first time his world got flipped upside down: summer break was over and practice was starting up for the new season. It had been weeks of an unsettling energy running through him. Always looking for the next adventure, counting down the days until he was back on the court, back in the grind of chasing that next title. That first morning back, though, Klay had smiled at him and jumped right into their seasoned banter as soon as he walked into the locker room. Everything in Steph settled in that moment. Where he’d felt frenzied before, seeing Klay, thinking about running drills with him, brought a new calm over him. That’s the moment he realized it was more than just playing basketball and winning championships with the guy. It was looking for a calm in the chaos and Klay being there every single time.

It took a bit of getting used to—his feelings for Klay. But now they seem inevitable, commonplace. He’s the team captain, he lives in the Bay area, water is wet, and he’s in love with Klay Thompson. His heart both stutters and calms itself each time he sees him; every time is like that first time. Steph doesn’t know if it’ll ever go away.

This time, though, his heart stutters in his chest and instead of just the usual skip, it aches seeing Klay hunched over on crutches, left leg bandaged and bundled up. But he looks good—as good as anyone can look after what he’s been through.

He’s wearing the usual lounge shorts and shirt so old and worn it's noticeably frayed at the collar and hem. Steph continues his once over, eyeing the way the crutches bunch up his shirt so that an inch of his torso is visible. There’s the jut of his hip bone, the smooth creaminess of his skin, the light dusting of hair below his navel.

Steph’s breath catches, and he quickly averts his eyes, looks up to meet Klay’s face instead. His exhaustion and discomfort are clear in the shadows under his eyes and the furrow between his brow. Steph plasters on the easiest of his smiles to muster. “Bro,” he says, taking the chance to step into the foyer, into Klay’s space, and give him a one-armed hug, careful not to jostle him. He smells like clean sweat, familiar. Klay’s right arm loops around Steph’s middle and squeezes back. His long, thick fingers hold on a beat longer than normal, feeling like a brand against his skin.

“Come on in,” Klay says when he pulls away, giving Steph one of his easy smiles. It takes him a moment to turn around, but he heads toward the living room, where it looks like he’s been camped out for the past few days.

Steph shoulders the backpack of supplies he brought along, closes the front door, and follows Klay. Always right behind him.

He’d wanted to check up on him post-surgery, but also post-loss. Post failing to get the three-peat. Post giving everything they had and it still not being enough. Steph came to check up on Klay, but maybe he needs a little checking up on too. And hanging out with Klay, bum knee and a boat-load of feelings or not, is always better than moping around by himself dwelling on missing a shot he takes all the time.

If he’s going to wallow, he also needs the balm that makes everything a bit better in the end.

-

Once Klay’s sunk back into the couch cushions with his leg elevated on the coffee table, Steph gingerly sits beside him unsure whether to adjust his pillows or offer to kick his ass at the game of Mario Kart he sees paused on the giant TV in front of them. Steph doesn’t often feel out of place with Klay; if anything, Klay’s ability to make him feel at ease is unwavering. But here he is, caught between acknowledging the season-ending-before-it’s-even-started elephant in the room or acting like it didn’t tear him up inside to see Klay writhing on the floor in pain.

“Stay a while, man,” Klay says around a smirk, reaching out to jostle Steph’s shoulder. That breaks the tension and awkwardness Steph built up in his head. Act like nothing happened, it is then. With a huffing laugh, he settles back against the cushion beside Klay and sprawls his legs out on the coffee table.

Klay hands him a spare controller and proceeds to kick his ass at Mario Kart.

-

Forty-five minutes and a lot of shit talking later, Steph and Klay are leaning into each other on the middle of the couch. That’s what a lot of playful shoving and jabs do, but Steph is not going to complain. He’s going to savor the casual intimacy, how Klay’s head knocks against his shoulder every time he throws it back to laugh at something stupid Steph’s said.

After another round, in which Steph _finally_ sees the finish line first—in your _face,_  Klay— Klay eyes the backpack sitting between Steph’s legs.

“Man, please tell me you’ve got a candy dispensary in that bag.”

Steph grins knowingly, grabs the backpack, and begins pulling out an entire arsenal of junk food. He hands Klay a jumbo bag of Skittles because he knows they’re his favorite and grabs the big ass bag of popcorn for himself.

Klay, clutching the candy to his chest, waxes poetic about it. “Bro, _yes,_ I could kiss you! It’s been all chicken and spinach for a week. I eat any more, I’m gonna be clucking Popeye.”

At that, Steph fumbles opening his popcorn; his brain and body cease communication, and all he can do is chuckle awkwardly so he doesn’t think about saying _do it then._

Steph recovers. The way he recovers every fourth quarter that they’re down ten with three to go. A little less gracefully now because usually on the court he doesn’t have Klay joking about kissing him on the mouth while leaning into his side and looking like every wet dream he’s ever had—well, that’s a bit untrue. He always looks like a wet dream, but when Steph’s on the court he has _priorities_ —even with his leg above his chest in an ugly medical cast. Jesus, he’s got to get it together. 

His recovery? Shoving handfuls of popcorn in his mouth so he doesn’t have to respond. Klay doesn’t notice his crisis because he’s too busy pouring handfuls of Skittles into his mouth. He never notices when Steph’s losing it over him, which is lucky, isn’t it? Even though sometimes Steph wants him to notice, to say something, to call him out because he’s too scared to do it himself. Wants Klay to say _You got it bad, don’t you? What’re you doing, big shot? You love me?_ And the answer is always _yes anything yes_ no matter the question.

Klay won’t say anything though. That’s not his nature. The less he can get away with saying, the better. Steph, on the other hand, is the face of the team; he’s the one fielding interview questions and executive producing and golfing with former presidents. He’s the one with the confidence of a three-time NBA championship team captain. He’s the one this should come easy to. He should be able to look at Klay—his big weirdo best friend—and just do it like he’s done everything else. 

The thing is though, Klay’s the backbone. There is no Steph hitting the corner three if Klay isn’t sending the ball his way. There is no championship if Klay isn’t leading the team right alongside him, the strong, resilient type. So does he want to jeopardize that and everything they’ve built because he wants to nurse him back to health, get on his knees for him, go home with him after every single game, and hold his stupid hand?

He might be a face of the NBA, but when faced with Klay Thompson? He’s G league at best.

-

“You talk to KD today?” Klay asks, barely making an effort with the video game. Steph’s been stealing glances from the corner of his eye. While he may have filled up on candy, he looks tireder than before, pain more obvious.

Steph wins another round then pauses the game for good. “Yesterday. We texted for a bit. He’s recovering well, and he’s got his family there. I feel a bit—I don’t know.” He sighs and shakes his head.

“What?” Klay asks, twisting his torso to face Steph. He’s serious now, whatever glimpse of enjoyment he had gone.

Steph shrugs and meets his eye. Seems like they’re going to talk about the elephant in the room after all. “I don't know. It’s irrational, but I feel a bit guilty. Don’t wanna bother him too much. I'm out here healthy, I'm set up, and he’s—you’re both—out, hurt. It just seems unfair is all.”

“Steph.” Klay’s face turns hard. The furrow between his brow pinches in concern instead of discomfort. “You really think that? We don’t—I don't resent you for anything. I know K doesn’t either. You’re our boy. Shit happens, a nasty fall happens, and it’s unfair. You did what you could do.”

It’s the most Klay’s said since Steph showed up at his door hours before. And it’s the most he’s said that’s held such weight.

“You did good, Steph. You did what you could do. Don’t feel guilty about that, man.” Steph feels Klay’s strong hand on his shoulder, offering comfort. Klay’s one of the kindest, most sensitive guys he knows—once you get passed the less-than-stellar small talk and down to the important stuff. He is so good.

Steph chuckles hoarsely. “You’re here recovering from surgery and you’re having to comfort me. It should be the other way around, shouldn’t it?”

Klay’s face softens at that. “You’re allowed to be upset about everything. You know that, right? So cut that ‘I’m undeserving of comfort’ bullshit out.”

He’s right, is the thing. But Steph can’t shake the feeling of unease and panic in watching Klay writhe on the floor in pain. Can’t shake the notion that they all pushed too hard, that it might’ve been different if they hadn’t played a game six at all. That Klay shouldn’t have to deal with this—KD either.

Steph can only nod though, because saying that won’t change anything worthwhile. Klay pulls him in then, arm around his shoulders. He greedily accepts the comfort; he tucks right up against Klay, no room for Jesus between them. “We’ll be fine. I can promise that. 

Steph nods again, feeling safe and comfortable nestled against Klay’s side. There’s a long pause whether neither of them say anything. Steph focuses on the rise and fall of Klay’s chest, feeling the gravity of the moment they’re living in. A minute longer and the bubble will pop: he’ll needle Klay into watching PGA Tour highlights and Klay’ll begrudgingly agree while secretly enjoying it and Steph will feel like his heart is going to go splat! on the floor for no other reason than he’s hanging out with the guy he’s a bit in love with. Or. Or, in the quiet comfort of Klay’s side, he could embrace the way he feels smaller, protected, brave enough to say what’s on his mind. Give way to the words that are worthwhile.

“Seeing you like that was one of the hardest things to watch,” he says softly, giving himself over to the knot of emotion in his chest that wants Klay to know. That wants to risk it all for even a little bit of a good return. It's up to Klay to do whatever he wants with that knowledge.

He feels it when Klay’s breath catches for a few seconds before he releases it again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Kind of lost it after the game. Might have punched a wall, if the rumors are true.” He laughs self-deprecatingly.

Klay sucks in another breath, a tsk. Steph can feel him swallow. “Why?”

Steph leans up then, NBA champion, team captain, and holds Klay’s stare. “I—” 

Everything works only because Klay is by his side. 

Klay’s gaze darts all across Steph’s face. “You what?”

Steph licks his lips. “I, uh, hated seeing you like that and knowing there was nothing I could do. All I wanted was to do something.”

Klay’s gaze lands on his lips then darts back up to his eyes. “Steph.”

Steph and Klay, greatest backcourt in the NBA. 

Steph makes a wounded noise when Klay says his name like that, like a sigh like a warning like a foreshadowing. The noise turns into a whine when Klay dips down and kisses him. 

Steph gasps and melts into the kiss. Then he worms his way out from under Klay’s arm, sits up straighter, and gives as good as he gets, overcome with the sudden turn of events. Klay’s _kissing_ him. Klay is kissing _him._ “Wait. _What._ ” He questions with his mouth still mashed against Klay so it comes out all garbled.

“Fuck,” Klay says against his mouth, then finally pulls away to breathe. “You can’t just. Say shit like that.” 

It feels like they’re on the edge of something important. Steph can either jump off blindly, retreat, or step off holding Klay’s hand. “ _Oh._ ” Klay’s got it bad too.

He kisses him one last time, tongue promising Klay more, before he pulls away. It’s a Herculean feat to stop kissing him; Steph deserves all the awards for not just diving back in and sucking on Klay’s red, spit slick bottom lip. He inhales deeply to compose himself. “But it’s true. It’s always been true. I've wanted you for,” he chuckles and ducks his head, “ _ages.”_

“Jesus,” Klay swears again before pulling him back in, licking into Steph’s mouth like he’s saying _I want you too._ “Me too. You’ve got me,” and he motions to where he’s spread out on the couch, leg elevated, free for the foreseeable future. _Nine months? Five years? Forever?_  

That makes Steph preen before fucking his tongue back into Klay’s mouth, running his hands up either side of his jaw, raking his fingers through the small hairs at the back of his head.

Maybe he’s not so G league after all.

-

When their mouths are raw from kissing and Steph can’t stop smiling like an idiot, they order takeout. It’s officially summer break; they’re allowed to eat junk food and greasy takeout while making out like teenagers.

Klay sits there while Steph gets him set up real nice. He plates up his food for him, grabs him a glass of water, fluffs the pillows under his leg, and hands him his pain medicine. Then they dig in, each of them eating a small mountain of food.

“A+ bedside manner,” Klay jokes after they’ve finished eating and Steph’s holding his hand out to take Klay’s plate.

Steph smiles back like a dope before clearing up the rest of their debris. He can feel Klay’s eyes on him the whole while and each time he glances at him, Klay’s smiling too. That small smile he has—the real, happy one—that’s maybe just for Steph. Steph is so happy he could explode; the feelings in his chest rival the ones after winning a championship.

-

“Let me take care of you,” Steph pleads, desperate from being so intimately tangled up in Klay. It’s officially dark outside and he’s been here way longer than he expected. Things turned out a lot different than he expected.

They’re making out again. Steph’s kissing all along Klay’s jaw, biting at his neck, the skin where his neck meets his shoulder, under his shirt and across his collarbones. Klay keeps making these breathy noises that are driving Steph _crazy._

Things turned out a lot _better_ than he expected.

“Yeah. Yes,” is all Klay manages to say, breathily. Steph pulls Klay’s shirt up at that admission. Sitting beside him it’s not as easy to kiss across his wide chest and suck each nipple into his mouth, but he does it. And thank God he does because the new sounds Klay makes when Steph teases and sucks at his nipple while rubbing his thumb over the other is enough to get him fully hard.

Klay is already there; Steph feels the heat of his hard cock when he kisses down his torso and dips his tongue into his navel. He pushes Klay’s shorts down just enough to nose at and press his mouth to the spots where the elastic bit into his skin throughout the day.

“Please,” Klay whines, hands hovering over Steph’s head like he doesn’t know whether he wants to sink his fingers into his hair just to hold on or push him down to his dick. Steph wouldn’t complain about either.

“Yeah?” Steph asks, cockiness he usually saves for when he hits a buzzer beater on clear display here.

“ _Yes.”_  Klay bites, trying not to squirm too much.

Steph chuckles and gets off the couch. He steps between Klay’s legs where he has one on the coffee table and the other on the floor, spread wide like an open invitation.

Klay looks up at him with dark, wide eyes.

“This isn’t going to be pretty or coordinated,” Steph determines as he sinks to his knees and begins pulling Klay’s shorts and underwear down. Once Klay’s dick is free, Steph nearly loses focus of his mission. He’s thought about this for so long and also tried so hard _not_ to think about it, but here it is: Klay’s all-star dick, hard as a rock, waiting for the wet heat of Steph’s mouth.

Klay pulls him out of his thoughts by trying to shove his shorts down more. Steph tries to help him, and he was right, it’s not coordinated or pretty—him trying to get them off Klay’s good leg first and then his bandaged-up one next.

“There,” he says with a gentle pat to Klay’s left thigh once he has the shorts and boxers hanging off Klay’s leg, “that’ll do.”

Klay snorts out a laugh and a, “Jesus, man,” while he covers his face with his hand. 

“You laugh,” Steph says, trying to situate himself between Klay’s legs while absolutely not jostling his knee at all, “but you’re the one sitting here with your shirt rucked up and your dick still hard.”

“Fuck off,” Klay says half-heartedly, never taking his eyes off Steph as he finally leans forward and gets his mouth on him.

It may not be pretty, but it feels sexy being between Klay’s legs, sucking him down, and hearing Klay’s little grunts every time Steph rubs the flat of his tongue on the underside of his dick.

It’s been a while since he’s done this, but it’s not often you forget how to do one of your favorite things. And Klay’s dick is definitely going to be one of his favorite things. He sucks him down, his fist jerking him off where his mouth doesn’t quite reach. He wants to draw it out, but he can feel Klay getting impatient, trying to fuck up into his mouth. And next time— _next time, god_ —he might let him, but he doesn’t want him to hurt himself. So he holds Klay’s hips still, thumbs rubbing over the jut of his hip bones, and sucks him down all at once. Klay’s dick in his mouth is wide and warm, stretching him open and hitting the back of his throat. He pulls off to suck on the head, running his tongue over the slit again and again. Klay’s grunts turn into high pitched little whines that are so hot Steph thinks he might pop off right in his own sweats.

He reaches down and plays with Klay’s balls while he goes back at it with fervor, sucking Klay off quick and messy.

“Steph—I’m gonna come,” Klay whines a few minutes later, hands pressed to the crown of Steph’s head. Instead of responding, Steph sucks him down further and that does it. Klay’s coming in his mouth, shooting off for what seems like forever. All Steph can do, all he wants to do, is swallow it down and keep sucking him through it.

When Klay’s too sensitive, he eases his dick out of Steph’s mouth. Tiredly, he pats Steph’s face on a job well done. That draws a surprised and breathy snort out of Steph.

His head is resting against Klay’s hip, lips mouthing at the soft, sweaty skin there. The taste of Klay is salty and so good and so hot, Steph’s overcome with it. He shoves his shorts down just enough to get his hand on his dick. Breathing in the smell of Klay, tasting him on his tongue, hearing him saying, “Steph, baby, come on” has Steph fucking into his fist repeatedly, palming the head of his dick like he loves, and coming on his own stomach embarrassingly quickly.

“Fuuuuuck,” he hears Klay groan, exhausted and fucked out.

Steph is trying to catch his breath. Trying to come down from getting everything he wanted and _then_ getting to suck his dick. He presses a kiss to Klay’s hip and sits back on his haunches. He knows how he must look. Flushed and punch drunk, mouth red and swollen. He must look wanton, like he got just what he needed.

“Get up here,” Klay says, reaching for Steph. “Jesus.”

“I've got come all over me,” Steph says belatedly, looking down at where he spent all over the bottom of his shirt and torso.

“Wipe it off. Come up here.” He doesn’t need to be told a third time. He strips his shirt off and cleans himself up. He tosses the shirt on the other side of the couch; he’ll deal with that later. For now, he has one thing on his mind: a good cuddle.

He knees back up onto the couch and snuggles into Klay’s side again. It’s going to be his new favorite spot. Besides between his legs.

Basking in the afterglow, they lounge there leaning into each other. Klay absently plays with Steph’s fingers. It’s quiet, but that doesn’t bother Steph. The quiet inhale and exhale of Klay’s breathing is soothing to hear and feel.

“Your knee still doing okay?” He asks after a minute.

Klay, deadpan, says, “I told you: A+ bedside manner.”

Steph snorts and buries his face in Klay’s shoulder. After he settles down, he clears his throat. Cautiously, he asks, “And us? We’re still doing okay?”

Klay squeezes Steph’s fingers. “Better than ever,” he promises before leaning down for a kiss. Steph’s never been so happy to return it.

Then, after a moment, Klay pulls back. Smirking, he asks, “Did you really punch a wall because of me? You got it that bad?”

Steph groans into his shoulder. His guy’s insufferable.

 

**Author's Note:**

> rebloggable post [here](https://collarboen.tumblr.com/post/185841806690/love-like-a-bag-of-frozen-peas-steph-curryklay) if you're into that
> 
> most importantly tho come yell with me about steph klay and the nba (and other stuff) on [tumblr](http://collarboen.tumblr.com) and/or [twitter](http://twitter.com/captainstogers)


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